I woke up very early Monday morning feeling ill. I had a pain in my chest. I thought it might be heartburn and took something for it but I couldn't get comfortable. I changed positions many times. Sat up. Laid down. My heart was beating strangely and I could feel a sharp pain under my left shoulder blade. I felt dizzy. I knew that women's heart attack symptoms were different than men's. I hesitated but, in the end, I called 911.
First time ever in an ambulance. The last time I was admitted to a hospital was when Chloé was born over 13 years ago.
It is a scary story with a happy ending. After several cardiograms, blood tests and a lung x-ray, I was told that my heart was fine as was everything else. All of the tests came back normal. What I had felt that morning was a cluster of symptoms that could be explained by other things (indigestion, palpitations probably due to coffee and hormones, muscular aches, topped off by more than a bit of anxiety).
I spent nine hours staring at a hospital ceiling on Monday. I traced the pattern of those drop ceiling tiles about a million times. No book. No music. Not even my shoes or a coat. What did I think about? My family, my friends, my painting, Meeko. About how caring everyone was with me that day: the ambulance paramedics, the doctor and nurses, my husband and my two girls. I thought about how my husband had left a meeting and rushed home as soon as he heard. I thought about how brave and grownup Emma and Chloé were that morning. I wanted to go home and hug all of them including Meeko. I wasn't worrying about returning emails, making Etsy treasuries or new blog posts, checking my Facebook and Twitter accounts, increasing sales or churning out more prints on my temperamental printer. I was just thinking about what was important.
|Amaryllis - work in progress (a mere beginning)|
Maybe we all need a scary story every now and then so that we can put everything else in perspective. Today, nothing is different and yet somehow everything is.